Bruar's Rest

‘To think of that terrible man running around out there makes my flesh crawl.’
    Megan took a glass and did the same. ‘Mine doesn’t feel too great neither,’ she shouted; then apologised for raising her voice.
    Michael forced her to sit down, and she instantly withdrew into herself. Even circled as she was by friends, their presence failed to drive the demon from her side. Vivid images of terror loomed above her, of Buckley whistling the ‘high road,’ biting hedgehogs and promising to take her to hell. Buckley, in all his evil dominance, was right back in her body and soul. She began to scream hysterically, and only when Bridget slapped her hard across her face did she come out of it.
    With dogged insistence Inspector Martin assured her they’d get their man, but he was wasting his breath as far as she was concerned. He was uncatchable. That inhuman product of evil would never hang from a rope-end until she’d been dealt with by him.
    ‘I’m so sorry Michael’, she told him in sombre tones, ‘this is too much for me. I think if I lose myself on the open road it will offer me more safety than these four walls. Anyway, I wouldn’t put it past him to come here and terrorise these kind folks.’
    Her bedroom offered sanctuary and privacy to fill a suitcase with the clothes Bridget gave her, and she was soon standing on the doorstep.
    Michael’s jaw had a stiff, determined look to it as he took the case from her hand and said she was going nowhere. ‘I’m not afraid of him, I told you that, But this trip is important, else I’d set off and catch him myself; or wait here and shoot his hide full of holes. He’s a coward, and can only hurt weaker people with fear. Stephen has his guns.’
    Stephen was worried though, and not for Megan; his responsibility was to his wife and child. ‘I agree with her,’ he told Michael, ‘and I feel it would be better if she left. I’ll take her to a station.’ He brought a wallet from his jacket pocket, took out some money and pushed it into her hand.
    The men began arguing, but Inspector Martin intervened and said, ‘Buckley will be caught; now his identity is known. Fugitives don’t get far.’
    His words meant nothing.
    Michael directed Megan outside, where he put the suitcase into his car. ‘I’m taking you to Ireland, and that’s that. And before I hear “What about our arrangement to find Bruar”, I’m a man of my word. We will definitely search for him, but just not in the near future while Buckley’s around. We’ll come back to see him hang.’
    The police officer seconded his words. ‘Oh, you can count on that. No stone will be left unturned until he dangles from the rope.’
    Michael went on, ‘Buckley will never know you’re in Ireland, and will have no idea where to search.’ To his sister and Stephen, he said it was highly unlikely a hunted man would come where there may easily be police waiting. ‘No, I feel he’ll lie low for a time. Now come on, Megan, let’s go—over the water to dear old Erin’s Isle.’
    What should she do? If she took her chances on the road she’d be forced to come across circles of gypsies, where in time he’d discover her. If she ventured alone somehow their paths were bound to cross. There was no choice.

T HIRTEEN

     
    T he port of Holyhead near Liverpool was a sprawling mass of humanity, struggling and jostling for space. Ship-hands, using every minute to get their ships moored or ready for sailing, were oblivious to other harbour business. Only the gangways along which they unloaded and loaded precious cargo mattered to the dozens of burly sailors whose job it was to see the goods on and off the huge carrier ships.
    This was a new sight to eyes that had seen only hills, moors and mountains high. She clung tightly to Michael until they were safely onboard the giant ferry which carried all kinds of folks to the south of Ireland. The simple words ‘haste ye back’ came from the ancients in her head, and tears rolled over shiny cheeks while she watched the mainland fade into a thin horizontal line of mist, then disappear. Michael wiped the tears from her face along with salty sea spray, squeezed her arm in reassurance and whispered softly, ‘He can’t reach you now.’
    Who did he mean, she wondered, wild Buckley or her Bruar?
    People thronged the decks, some passing with a smile or nod, others with stern looks, although few seemed sad. This uplifted her heavy heart.
    The sea, like her mood, was